Garlic and Olive Oil

What's great about our apartment’s location is that as soon as you step out the main entrance of the building you're immediately in the midst of all the action here in Talavera de la Reina.  Across the road  are the park, a playground, a pond, a bullring, and a Simago supermarket. There are bars, restaurants and shops to the right and to the left, and everywhere you look you see people. Calle del Prado is indeed a busy thoroughfare.

The odour of sweat, black tobacco, garlic and stale cheese hits your nostrils, stifling you. It's a relief when children drenched in cheap floral cologne skip by on their way to school. Their black hair is shiny, plastered neatly down on their heads. The fragrance is refreshing, a reassuring confirmation that something good is always nearby.

The blind man is standing in his usual spot, hoping to sell lottery tickets, and the gypsy woman  has already taken up her position in front of Moro, the furniture store. The quick movements of her outstretched hand as she begs for pesetas remind me of a conductor waving his baton at the string section in an orchestra playing allegro.

At the kerb a woman is crouched over her little girl whom she's holding in the least ladylike of positions. Urine splashes onto the side of the road and I can well imagine the relief beyond belief the girl is feeling as she empties her bladder. People walk by, oblivious, and don't even glance over, perhaps too used to scenes like this. A scrawny large stray dog saunters up and sniffs the urine, but even he walks away, head down as if completely disinterested.

The woman is obviously in a hurry as she mutters to her daughter, "Hurry up. Come on. Hurry up! How can a tiny girl like you produce so much?!"

I try not to be surprised and shocked at the scenes all around me and focus instead on crossing the busy road into the Prado without getting run over. I buy my usual coffee at the bar near the pond decorated in Talaveran ceramic which is gleaming magnificently in the morning sun. The town of Talavera de la Reina is waking up, but the park is still quiet, enjoying the beginning of a new day before the crowds disrupt the calm.  

Those old men with berets and walking sticks who sit on the same benches every day haven't arrived yet. I look for them, anticipating their appearance. It's like waiting on an opera or a musical to begin, that magical time when the orchestra is tuning up, preparing for its performance. The old men usually arrive slowly in twos or threes, their voices ringing out in the fresh, dry air as they discuss the recent Golpe de Estado and the wonders of King Juan Carlos who saved the day. This aborted Golpe has been food for thought here in Talavera for the past several weeks. There are those who yearn for the security that Franco provided, and then there are those who are afraid of change, of what the future might bring, of what people could think.

“And so what if the King is a playboy?!” The bartender shrugs his shoulders at me. “He’s proven himself a good leader, a man in command.” He pokes at his crotch, then wipes his nose.  

I sip on the tiny cup of black coffee, and enjoy the rich thick flavour.  

A skinny gypsy girl is crouched down, drawing pictures in the dirt with a long twig. It’s a shame that she’s all alone, but the best time for her to find playmates would be late afternoon when the children come to the park to play after school, giant pastries grasped in their tiny hands.  A puddle forms in the dried up earth and trickles over next to the bushes. just beyond the public toilet.  Maybe she always does the toilet in the open air. Or, maybe the public toilet is dirty? I don't think I want to find out.

She stands up, sweeps her long dark hair down over her back, then takes an old piece of bocadillo from a trash can, crumbles it and tosses the pieces onto the ground. Pigeons appear from nowhere to gobble up this unexpected breakfast. She smiles and giggles at the pigeons parading around heads bobbing up and down, grasping the crumbs of bread.

A group of youths appears, glancing shiftily at one another as if conspiring to get into some form of mischief. They throw stones at the pigeons and congratulate each other every  time they almost hit one.

“Great!”

“Go for it!”

“Make a good dinner tonight!”

The gypsy girl looks as if she’s about to yell at the troublemakers as she places her hands on her hips. Fortunately, the pigeons fly quickly away, wings fluttering loudly above the trees; like violins playing Vivaldi’s Spring, The Four Seasons.

The bartender wipes the counter, turns up the music on the radio and wipes the counter again. Next, he dries his hands on his shirt, then grasps his crotch and walks outside over to a tree where he stands, legs apart, his back to me. I'm so glad he has the decency to turn away from me as he relieves himself of his morning coffee and brandy. He's a real gentleman is the bartender, something I appreciate. Truly, I absolutely without any doubt appreciate his manners, so rare are they to encounter these days. What a shame more men aren’t like him! Yet, even so, I can't help but whistle loudly. Want to know why?

I know he'll be dying to turn round to see who is whistling. You see, it's an old trick I’ve  learned to play. It never fails. Every time, well, almost every time, I see a man urinating outside I whistle. He gets startled and turns round to see who is there. Guess what happens to his hand? Ha ha ha. It gets all wet!

In the mid-seventies I studied at the University of Maryland European Campus located on the Naval Base of Rota, Cádiz. What was interesting about this venture into the American educational system, apart from paying an exorbitant amount of money for the Psychology and Sociology courses I took, is that I was able to earn credit for Spanish classes simply by taking the exams. They called it Credit by Examination. Instead of paying for four separate Spanish classes in order to earn 12 credits, I just paid to take four examinations.

I sailed through the first three examinations, receiving an A in each one. Yay! Fair chuffed, I then presented myself at the fourth examination.  I did pass, but I only got a B. Want to know why I only got a B?  It's because of the bloody prepositions! I was puzzled, befuddled, bemused, baffled and overwhelmed by these stupid little words. I didn't even care about them. I really did not pay too much attention at all to them when preparing for the exam. Yet, there they were, in a large section of the exam. I'm not great at multiple choice to begin with, but add to that my supreme lack of knowledge of the use of these damn prepositions, and you end up with a crazed lady about to scream, or at least hide underneath the desk.

Let’s have a look at a few funny little prepositions and their environment. Here are some stories of the world according to 'de'. Such a teeny tiny word, such an innocuous looking specimen, how could it possibly cause so many problems?! Partly it's because he's involved with other words and in so doing evolves into a prepositional phrase.

antes de dormir                before sleeping  

después de trabajar         after working (Note the use of the infinitive in Spanish.)

al lado de                        next to

alrededor de                    around

cerca de                           near

That's what happens when you become embroiled with unsavoury characters. Yes, you change, you even lose your sense of self-worth. Why couldn't he just be straightforward and simple the way he is in this sentence?

Yo soy de Madrid.  I am from Madrid.

Simple, straightforward, without complications. This is the way 'de' ought to be at all times. Absolutely.

¿De dónde eres? From where are you?  Where are you from?

Now, here he is a little bit annoying in that he goes in front of the 'dónde', but I don't mind that at all. I really don't. I can handle this.

Probably one of the first uses of 'de' that you learned was for possession.

La muñeca de Ana.    The doll of Ana. Ana's doll.  (I know, you just want to say, "Ana's muñeca", don't you?  Me too.)

El perro del señor.      The dog of the man. The man's dog.  

Where did 'del' come from?!  It's the 'de + el' which becomes 'del',

Who can figure out what this means?   ¿De quién es el lápiz?

Just when you think you’ve figured out this ‘de’ boy, he goes and tries to make himself all sophisticated and intriguing by hanging out with verbs.

acabar de                Acabo de estudiar.  I have just studied. (Oh really? What did you study?  The preposition 'de'? Ha ha!)

dejar de                   Yo dejé de fumar.  I stopped smoking.  (Bet you didn't!)

tratar de                   Ella trató de llegar a tiempo.  She tried to arrive on time.

alegrarse de            Me alegro de verte. I'm happy to see you.

Why there's a need for these verbs to include 'de' is one of the many mysteries we all encounter. Perhaps our little 'de' is a great big strong lad that words just need to cling to in order to make sense? They can't survive on their own? Really and truly.

Now, ‘de’ isn’t the only cocky little word. Nope. How about ‘con’?    

Look at him showing off in these sentences.

Hablo contigo.                I speak with you.  

Y tú hablas conmigo.      And you speak with me. (So glad that we’re speaking to one another!)

Ella sueña con su novio.   She dreams about her boyfriend. (She dreams with her boyfriend? That’s what it sounds like in English.)

Ella quiere casarse con su novio.    She wants to marry her boyfriend. (If he makes her arrive on time and if she dreams about him, guess she might as well marry him. Don’t you think?)

An even tinier preposition, ‘a’, is equally perplexing, if you want my opinion. Here he is strutting his stuff.

Nosotros asistimos a la clase.                      We attend the class.

Ellos van a viajar este verano.                      They are going to travel this summer.

Yo juego al baloncesto.                                 I play basketball. (Only kidding. I’m too short!)

Sometimes this ‘a’ fellow is there, and sometimes he isn’t. Not exactly a word that you can rely on, is he?! You think you’ve figured out what verbs need him, and then you come across sentences like this:

Yo visito Sevilla.                                            I visit Seville.

Yo visito a mi abuela.                                    I visit my gran.  

You need the ‘a’ as it’s a person you’re visiting. This is the personal ‘a’.

Nosotros escuchamos la música.                  We listen to music.  

Nosotros escuchamos a la profesora.           We listen to the teacher.

That’s that personal ‘a’ again. He just suddenly turns up when you least expect him.

Don’t get me started on ‘por’!. He’s another one that should run away and hide behind the tail of that poor donkey standing forlornly in the field. Who needs ‘por’?!  I personally got along very well without him and his cronies, until I took that Credit by Examination that is, way back in the mid-seventies.

Ella se desvivió por sacar una A pero recibió una B.           She went out of her way/did her utmost to get an A but received a B.  

Me preocupo por el examen.                                                I worry about the exam.

I guess, if truth be told, I blew it. I should have taken into account at least some of the vagaries and whims of the Spanish prepositions when studying for the exam. Och.

Thank you for stopping by! If you’d like to read more about Spanish prepositions here's a useful link. And if you’d like to read about the seventies and eighties in Spain please click here

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